


Family Portrait with Secret

by stepantrofimovic



Category: d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Athos' utter inability to communicate an emotion reasonably, Canon - Book, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Missing Scene, anyway, d'Artagnan has so much work to do, deserves its own tag, why exactly are all these names showing up in different formats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: While inTwenty Years AfterRaoul doesn't know who his father is, inVicomte de Bragelonnehe seems to know. This is the story of how he found out.
Relationships: Athos | Comte de la Fère & Raoul de Bragelonne, d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Family Portrait with Secret

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going through a lot of old drafts at the moment, and I found this, which I wrote after rereading the whole d'Artagnan trilogy a few years ago. I certainly didn't have to write it, and I definitely didn't have to write it in Dumas-pastiche style -- but at the same time, I think I had this specific story in my mind since I read the novels for the first time, so, you know, just 15 years or so. Also, listen, we need more Raoul fanfic.

It was a luminous afternoon towards the end of the summer, at the hour when the sun’s rays start to fall obliquely even though there is still plenty of lazy time left before sunset, when a man in a musketeer’s uniform stopped at the door of the country house of the Count de La Fère. The markings on his uniform, still new, informed the young man who opened the door that he was facing no one else than the captain of the King’s musketeers.

Not that said young man (who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen years of age) would have needed the information either way, since he quite obviously recognized his visitor at first glance. “Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with a spontaneous joy that entirely befitted his age.

D’Artagnan’s answering smile was in turn tinged with easy, unmistakable affection towards his interlocutor. “Good evening, Raoul. It’s a pleasure to see you, even though I must admit I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I asked Monsieur le Prince for a few days’ leave in order to pay the Count a visit,” Raoul answered ruefully. “Our regiment is due to leave Paris sooner rather than later, and I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I neglected to pay my respects to my benefactor.”

“Of course.” Despite his efforts, D’Artagnan couldn’t quite manage to keep a touch of bitterness out of his voice at Raoul’s choice of words. It was too early for him to be reminded of the reason for his visit; he had hoped to at least enjoy La Fère’s hospitality first. “I suppose that Athos – that the Count is at home, then.”

“He is.” Raoul took a step away from the door, lowering his head at the reproach implicit in d’Artagnan’s words. “I’m sure he will be most pleased by your visit, monsieur. Although, you will forgive me if I ask –” he raised his head again, shooting d’Artagnan an inquisitive glance “– are we to understand that you’re here on duty?”

Raoul’s artless display of apprehension brought another smile to the old musketeer’s lips. Admittedly, not enough time had passed since those exploits of theirs that had so inconvenienced the Queen and the Cardinal for Raoul to consider Athos completely safe from Mazarin’s belated revenge. “Can’t I just be here to pay a visit to an old friend?”

Raoul’s expression hardened. “You will forgive me, monsieur d’Artagnan, if I suggest that this would be unlike you.”

“Well said, young man.” D’Artagnan clasped a hand on Raoul’s shoulder. “And your concern for my friend does you honour, even if it makes you a little oblivious of the rules of hospitality.” A blush tinged Raoul’s cheeks at that. “No, the matter I’m here about is entirely personal, and does not concern the King – or the Cardinal – at all.”

The young man smiled openly this time, relief triumphing over his embarrassment. “Then I will send someone to fetch Monsieur le Comte straight away.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Raoul, thank you,” a voice said from behind them. When Raoul stepped aside to reveal Athos coming down the stairs, d’Artagnan managed to catch a glimpse of the unabashed pride and affection that brightened Athos’ gaze at the sight of his son, before his friend could disguise them under a mild, welcoming smile. Remembering, once again, the reason that had brought him to La Fère, d’Artagnan felt his heart go tight in his chest.

“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Athos said, embracing d’Artagnan with affectionate abandon. Despite the time that had passed since he’d reconnected with his old friend, d’Artagnan still found himself occasionally startled by the difference between Athos’ stern, distant behaviour when he was a musketeer and the warm, happy man in whose presence he stood now. Of course, the reason for that change was standing right next to them in the hallway, wearing an equally warm and welcoming expression on a much younger face.

“I hope that whatever affair brings you here can wait until you’ve had dinner with us,” Athos added, dragging d’Artagnan back from his musings. It looked like Athos, perceptive as usual, had divined his friend’s unease.

“It certainly can, my dear Athos. Lead the way.”

***

Dinner, as was customary for the La Fère household, was a simple and sober affair, but despite the apparent artlessness of the preparations, none of the delicacies of the Berrichonne cuisine were missing from the table – from fragrant garlic snails to the warm apple tart which was not quite a _pastis gascon_ but still put d’Artagnan in a deliciously good mood. The musketeer made sure to inquire after Raoul’s well-being in addition to Athos’, and to ask him about his regiment, his friends (notably the young Count de Guiche, of whom Raoul seemed especially fond), and his plans for the future. The last topic, especially when d’Artagnan casually dropped the name of La Vallière, brought a blush to Raoul’s face that the aging captain couldn’t help but find endearing, even though Athos looked faintly displeased.

After dinner, the two older men retreated to Athos’ study. The sun’s disk was already dipping below the horizon, but the evening promised to be clear and bright. They swapped news about their missing friends (Aramis having settled back to his residence in Noisy-le-Sec for what d’Artagnan was sure would be a very short time, and the newly-created Baron de Bracieux having returned triumphantly to his lands together with a proud Mousqueton), until d’Artagnan finally steered the conversation towards the topic he wanted to get to in the first place. It was, admittedly, not a hard feat, considering Athos’ fondness for talking about anything related to Raoul.

“How old is the boy, now, exactly?”

“Seventeen, a few weeks ago.” Athos’ smile, albeit controlled, could have lit up the whole room.

“Almost my age when I came to Paris.” D’Artagnan fell silent for a moment, swept up in the grand and terrible memories of his youth. They sat together in that silence, both remembering their own dead. “You will forgive my bluntness,” d’Artagnan finally resumed, “if I say that I love your boy as if he were mine, and that I am proud that his character hasn’t betrayed his upbringing, or his lineage.”

Athos’ bow did nothing to hide the tinge of red on his cheeks. It told d’Artagnan that he was getting where he wanted. His small triumph, however, was devoid of glee, as he worried he was about to cause his friend a good amount of pain.

Not one for biding his time unless it was necessary, the musketeer finally went for the direct line of attack. “This is what I came here to speak to you about, actually.”

Athos chuckled, the sound more than a little forced. “Raoul?”

D’Artagnan hummed affirmatively. “I remember a few conversations we had, the boy and I, while we were both in Paris. He is, in general, as happy with his condition as one may ever wish to be, but the one thing that weighs upon his heart – so he tells me – is that he doesn’t know his father. I believe it gives him reason for shame not to be able to name his ancestry when asked.”

Athos’ smile was as forced as his laughter had been a few moments before. “What makes you think that is my secret to share?”

Despite his superior self-control, d’Artagnan could not repress the angry gesture that accompanied his words. “If it weren’t for the respect I harbour for you, I would ask you not to insult my intelligence.”

Athos lowered his eyes. “I apologize, my friend.”

“You call me your friend; in the past, you’ve done me the honour of referring to me as your son. But it was not my name that came to your lips when Mordaunt dragged you into the sea, not so long ago. It was not the thought of me that saved your life that day.” D’Artagnan had to pause to collect his strength in the face of Athos’ growing pallor. “My only right upon you is that which is given by friendship, Athos, and even that is enough, I believe, for me to ask what I’m asking of you now. Raoul has far more than that right. I think he deserves to know.”

The silence that fell at d’Artagnan’s words was heavy but short-lived. Despite the sweat beading his brow, Athos’ voice was steady as he answered.

“You’re right, my friend. As you usually are.” In one of those sudden outbursts of energy that were so typical of his character, he sprang to his feet and rang the bell. “Blaisois!” he called. “Blaisois!”

“Yes, monsieur?” the servant said, appearing in the doorway.

“I need to speak to Raoul.”

***

“Did you ask for me, Monsieur Le Comte? Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Raoul added, nodding his greeting to d’Artagnan despite the fact that he’d left not so long before. D’Artagnan acknowledged this show of manners with a small smile.

“Yes, Raoul. Forgive me if I have disturbed your rest, but there is some – pressing matter that I wish to discuss with you.”

“Of course, monsieur.” While the boy was doing an admirable job of appearing calm, d’Artagnan could see the tension in the way he carried himself, in the glances he kept stealing towards the visitor who clearly must have prompted this sudden summons. Still, they both waited for Athos to resume speaking.

“My friend, monsieur d’Artagnan, has reminded me that I have for a long time treated you unfairly, Raoul.”

“Treated me unfairly! Monsieur, you certainly haven’t –”

Athos raised a hand, halting the young man dead in his tracks. “Raoul, please. I would prefer not to be interrupted.”

Raoul nodded, his cheeks blushing with shame.

“You, Raoul, have never known the name of your father.” At these words, the boy’s eyes immediately snapped back to Athos’ face, focusing an ardent gaze on him. Still, he did not speak. “I know that name myself, and despite your asking so many times, still I have kept it from you, for my own shame. I have done this because I feared that revealing that name to you would bring me, not shame, but unmeasurable pain.” D’Artagnan could see the way Athos’ knuckles went white as he spoke, the tension in his hands the only thing that betrayed the toll this conversation was taking on him. Before carrying on, Athos exhaled, forcing some of that tension to leave his body.

“That it has taken my friend d’Artagnan coming here to remind me of my cowardice for me to finally vanquish this fear – this, I am not proud of.” He shook his head, seemingly prompting himself to action. “In here,” and with those words Athos took a thick envelope out of a drawer whose existence was all but disguised by the ornate carvings on his desk, “is all the information I have about your father’s story, and the story of your birth. I’m giving this to you tonight, so you can read it.”

As Athos thrusted the envelope into Raoul’s hands, d’Artagnan could see the boy struggling to shake himself out of a deep stupor. “As you read these papers, I want you to remember,” Athos added, solemnly, “that you are hereby released from any obligation or bond of gratitude you might feel towards me. You are free to stay or leave as you please, Raoul, with no offence towards me.”

That finally drew a reaction out of Raoul, whose cheeks suddenly flushed a deep crimson. “Monsieur,” he said, sharply, tossing the envelope back on the desk in front of him, “if the contents of these papers are what causes you to speak to me in this tone, then I have no desire to read them.”

“Raoul!” Athos exclaimed, imperiously. “I am not asking you to read these, I am ordering you.”

D’Artagnan almost expected Raoul to say something downright insulting at that, but the boy who had been brought up by the most courteous man in France wasn’t about to betray his education. “Monsieur,” he replied, after taking a deep breath, “I would like to say something to you, and while I’m not sure I will find the right words not to offend you, I will ask you to be patient with me and my lack of experience.”

Athos nodded. “I will listen.”

Raoul shot a meaningful glance towards d’Artagnan.

“You may speak as freely in front of monsieur d’Artagnan as you would in front of me, Raoul.”

“As you wish, _monsieur le comte_.” Raoul’s face was as pale as his father’s, but his voice didn’t betray him. “Your words,” he said, “make me think that you have committed some fault towards my father, a fault that you don’t expect me to forgive.” He took a deep breath. From his corner, d’Artagnan could see Athos’ hands shaking. “So, I call monsieur d’Artagnan as a testimony to what I’m about to say. You have mentioned the fact that I used to ask you who my father was rather often. You forgot to point out that I haven’t done the same in a while.”

Athos nodded, jerkily, then waited for Raoul to continue.

“I stopped asking,” the young man resumed, “because I stopped caring about the answer. It does not matter who my father was, monsieur, because I have known the Count de La Fère as more than a father since I could remember. I don’t need anything more than that. And I don’t care if you’ve killed or betrayed or dishonoured my father,” he continued, raising his voice to stop Athos from interrupting him. “I will not hold the phantom of him over the respect and affection I feel for you!”

As Raoul finally stopped, his chest heaving with emotion, Athos took a step forward. Grabbing the envelope off the table with unsteady hands, he offered it to Raoul.

“Please, take this.” As Raoul turned his head away, “I’m asking you, this time,” he added, pleadingly. “Don’t force me to make this an order.”

“Athos –” d’Artagnan tried to interrupt, but an imperious gesture from his friend silenced him.

“As you wish,” Raoul bowed, his eyes downcast and dark. It was obvious that he was taking Athos’ response as a rejection of his passionate speech, and that he was struggling to hold back tears.

As he spoke again, Athos seemed to have regained his superior self-control. “If, when you’re finished reading, you wish to leave this house without informing me, you’re free to do so. You can take Olivain with you. He will serve you faithfully, or he’ll answer to me, in this world or the next. These,” he added, taking out a purse from a locked drawer, “are yours, to provide for your immediate needs. After that, I’m sure that _monsieur le prince_ will see that you’re conveniently equipped for everything.”

“Sir,” Raoul choked, taking the purse out of Athos’ hands. “You c–”

“Good night, Raoul.”

Before his tears could betray his emotions any further, the young man fled the room without another word.

As soon as Raoul left, Athos let himself drop into a chair, his head in his hands. He sat there for several minutes, drawing harsh and ragged breaths from deep in his chest, seemingly having forgotten d’Artagnan’s presence until the musketeer’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Forgive me,” he said. “I was – preoccupied.”

D’Artagnan grimaced at the apology. “What will you do if the boy leaves, Athos?”

Athos’ voice was as sweet as his smile as he answered, with his usual straightforwardness, “I have good reasons to believe it will kill me.”

“My friend –”

Athos, raising to his feet, didn’t let him finish. “I think a walk in the park before bed will help clear my head,” he said, his tone perfectly empty of all emotion. “If you wish to join me, I’ll be honoured to have your company. I haven’t shown you the work my gardener is doing on the linden trees yet.”

“As you wish,” d’Artagnan bowed, knowing well that imposing upon his friend’s emotions any further would take him nowhere.

For the hour or so that followed, anyone who looked upon the tree-lined avenue in front of the La Fère manor could see the two men walking slowly up and down in the falling darkness. Since they were alone, no one could bear witness as to what their conversation was about.

After an hour, only one of them headed back towards the house, while the other gestured that he would be staying out for a while more. The first light of dawn found him still sitting on a bench outside. As he rose, he spared a glance towards the back of the house, where the stables were. He was, no doubt, reflecting upon the fact that if anyone had left from that side during the night, he would not have seen or heard them, as long as they were careful not to make too much noise.

With a last sigh he couldn’t suppress, Athos walked back into his house as the sun rose.

***

His first stop was the door to Raoul’s bedroom. His feet dragged him there without him thinking, and he did nothing to stop them.

The door was open. The room was empty, and the bed had not been touched.

Anyone who had been in the corridor for the next ten minutes or so would have witnessed a remarkable phenomenon. As he stood, unmoving, in front of the open door, the Count de la Fère seemed to age by at least ten years. His usually pale countenance was now waxy, his head bowed and his shoulders drooping. When he finally uprooted himself from his position and started walking towards his study, his previously proud gait had turned into the painful shuffling of an old man.

The door to his study, he noticed, was also open. He quickened his pace, some of the previous energy seemingly returning.

As he reached the doorway, he was greeted by a sight that restored all colour to his cheeks. The sun’s first rays fell on the brunette hair of Raoul, who appeared to have fallen asleep on his father’s desk, his head resting on a bunch of scattered papers that Athos quickly recognized as those he had given him the day before.

He stepped into the room, immediately catching himself in fear that his movements might disturb Raoul. It was too late, however – a light sleeper like his father, and certainly not helped by his current situation, the boy was already stirring.

“Raoul –” Athos began, and then all words were stolen from him at the sight of his son’s face, lined with sleep and worry and the unmistakeable signs of crying.

“Monsieur,” Raoul mumbled, still emerging from sleep. A moment later, Athos could see the boy realise where he was, and remember the events from the previous night. Raoul turned fully to stare at him then, his face open and looking so young Athos’ heart constricted painfully in his chest.

“I see you have read –” Athos started, but before he could continue, Raoul had stood up and closed the distance between them, throwing himself at his father and hugging him so tightly he all but knocked the wind out of him. As he wrapped his own arms around him, Athos could feel Raoul trembling, a tremor that matched his own.

There would be need for words, and apologies, Athos knew. There would be a time for Raoul to ask about his mother, and for Athos to find a way to answer him. For now, however, all he had to do was hold Raoul close to his heart, and bury his face in his son’s hair, and hide the tears that were streaming down his face.

When d’Artagnan finally came out of his own room, he found father and son together in the salon, the golden morning light spilling onto them from a tall window. It played in Raoul’s hair, giving the boy an even more angelic appearance than usual; and it threw into stark relief his father’s adoring expression. Then, more than ever, d’Artagnan knew that if ever one of them was separated from the other, it would be the death of them both; and in that same moment he vowed to do all he could to never allow that to pass.


End file.
